


i want to breathe out when you breathe in

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3350609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(then i want to fade into you)<br/>Clarke may be a country superstar in her own right, and Bellamy might get on her last nerve, but a little collaboration never hurt anyone, right?   ‘She may have been in this business far longer than he has, but part of the reason he agreed to accompany her on tour was because her manager told him of the need for Clarke to change up her image, to shy away from the good little country girl who said her prayers every night before bed and never stayed out past eleven.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	i want to breathe out when you breathe in

One look at Clarke Griffin tells him everything he needs to know – getting her into bed with him is going to be one of the hardest things he's ever accomplished...and he single-handedly got Octavia through high-school.

Hell, getting her to kiss him is going to be a feat within itself.

He doesn't really mind the challenge though, shooting her a wry grin as she stands over him, eyes narrowed and forehead wrinkled in aggravation. She looks every inch the stereotypical country star, blonde hair curled gently and falling down her back, worn brown leather boots stopping at mid-thigh and a shirt buttoned tightly over what he knows to be an incredible rack. A golden cross dangles teasingly just over her cleavage, and he's never before wanted to swap places with an inanimate object so desperately.

He by comparison, has barely managed to rub the sleep from his eyes when she comes barging into his trailer, blue eyes ablaze and chest heaving. He doesn't mind the sight...but he sure as hell does mind when she whips the blankets from his bed and leaves his form exposed for all to see – she should be thankful he decided not to sleep in the nude last night. Judging from the blush that spreads across her cheeks and the way she defiantly refuses to look anywhere but at the roof of his trailer, his exposed chest is more than little miss country super-star can handle. He chuckles, running a hand through his hair and easing himself up from the allure of his bed. It is only when he has donned a discarded shirt and slipped a pair of pants over his boxers that Clarke lowers her gaze, her cheeks still slightly flushed red.

Pants now zipped up and resting low around his hips, he makes his way over the small kitchen area of his trailer. Clarke follows him, and he can almost hear the annoyance coursing through her body. He knows from experience that she isn't used to not being the centre of attention, something he considers to be an unfortunate side effect of being an only child. He ignores her and the sounds of her deep inhaling and exhaling, bending down to retrieve the almost empty carton of juice and stretching back up to snag a clean glass, two actions that would cause any other girl to fluster – especially one who had blushed so prettily at the sight of his exposed skin only moments ago. In Clarke's case, the only reaction he and his tanned skin muster is a scoff, and he has to wait a few moments before turning around to face her, lest she see the grin that has crossed his lips.

Can't have her think he finds her amusing, after all.

“So,” he begins, cleaning the rim of his glass with the edge of his shirt...which, come to think about it, probably isn't that clean after all, “What was so urgent you had to barge into my trailer at...” His eyes flicker up to the clock resting above Clarke's head, and he groans slightly, immediately wishing that this is all just a dream, “Eight a.m.”

The set of Clarke's jaw informs him that she's been waiting for him to ask that question, blue eyes alight with anger. Judging from personal experience with Octavia, he definitely knows that he's in for it now, no matter how early it is.

He should have known a girl who manages to reach a high F whilst singing would be able to yell quite loudly.

“You have no right to ask Wells if you can extend your set, no right to be up on my stage any longer than the forty-five minutes I've already given you! I'm the freaking head-liner!” she exclaims, poking a finger harshly into his chest. He resists the urge to smooth the pain with the palm of his hand. “It's  _my_ name that's up on those banners,  _my_ concert people are coming to see. You're nothing but  _my_ opening act, and that's only because I stupidly let Wells talk me into hiring you!”

Outburst over, Clarke merely huffs gently and falls into a chair, looping her ankles behind one another and looking expectantly up at him.

He nods at her, pouring himself a tall glass of juice and sipping it slowly, very slowly. “The way I see it... _princess_ ,” he tells her mockingly, deliberately adopting an over-the-top southern drawl and winking at her when she glares daggers at him, “You might consider me, how did you put it, merely as your 'opening act', but we both know that isn't true. Haven't you read the newspapers lately, or are you too busy as the 'head-liner' to do such a trivial thing? Never mind, I'll give you a run-down of what you obviously aren't seeing with your own eyes. The reporters are giving me just as much praise and importance as they are you in their articles...and that's with the mere forty-five minutes on stage you've so  _graciously_ given me.”

He takes another sip of his juice, unable to hide the smirk that crosses his lips. Clarke merely rolls her eyes at him, and he has to swallow the chuckle that rises in his throat, before speaking once more, “I'm sorry I went behind your back to ask Wells for more time – but I thought I would be doing us both a favour by doing so.”

She arches an eyebrow at that, and he continues on hastily, desperate to make his point before her mood shifts and she becomes even more infuriated. “I want more time on stage to showcase some of my newer songs, and I thought you'd appreciate not having to perform such a long set night after night.” Bellamy shrugs, setting down his glass. “I might not have been doing this for as long as you have, but I know one thing. Life on the road is tough, and draining as all hell, and we wouldn't want the head-liner to burn herself out, would we?”

And just like that, angry Clarke sits before him once more.

“Don't you dare say such a thing!” Clarke exclaims, pelting a guitar pick at him. The action is futile, the plastic pick rebounding off his shirt as quickly as it hits it, but he has to admire her gusto and energy – especially at eight a.m., especially after they've spent the last two nights up on stage.

But Clarke, he figures, like always, would have removed her stage makeup and slipped straight into bed after meeting with the appropriate press and signing a few autographs, whereas he had gone to the after-party some magazine had organised for them, had way too many beers and fallen into bed only when the questions of Clarke's absence had become too annoying to handle.

Seriously. He isn't her keeper, isn't her manager, or her friend, no matter what the press might think. If she wants to skip out on after-parties and thus the positive press that accompanies such an appearance, so be it. More fool her, in his opinion. She may have been in this business far longer than he has, but part of the reason he agreed to accompany her on tour is because her manager told him of the need for Clarke to change up her act, to shy away from the image of the good little country girl who said her prayers every night before bed and never stayed out past eleven. It may have been cute when she was sixteen and just starting out, and hell he may have had to endure hours of his own sister listening to Clarke's first C.D., but change is always good, and there's no denying it would be great for Clarke Griffin.

“I'm not ill-wishing you,” he tells her, taking a seat across from her. She crosses her arms, an action which only serves to highlight her bust. He has to force himself to meet her eyes, instead of the tantalising flesh. “I'm not that much of an ass.”

Her reply is yet again a derisive scoff, and he has to rub his brow in frustration.

Why are they fighting again? Surely their energy could be spent more wisely, if not so early in the morning – he is only a man after all, not a god.

A mere glance at the angry glower Clarke is currently aiming towards him dampens that desire almost instantaneously, and he shakes his head to clear away any less than pure thoughts. “Look,” he murmurs, draining his glass, “If you don't want to give me more time on stage than my initial forty-five minutes, whatever. I get it.” He looks her straight in the eyes, hoping that direct eye contact with convince her, because nothing else seems to be working. “You might not think I do, but I understand the need to protect your act, the need to be the act seventy-five percent of the audience came to see. ”

Clarke visibly deflates at his words, inhaling deeply and pushing her chair back. He holds up a finger in an attempt to stall her departure, setting down his glass. “if you won't consider giving me more time on stage, there's one other solution I can suggest. You need me on this tour as much as I need to be on it, princess,” he tells her, grinning as she glares at him. “How do you feel about a couple of duets? Nothing fancy, nothing too complex...just pure, simple fun between a couple of musicians that happen to be on tour together.” He shrugs at her, unaffected by the glare she is once more sporting. “Couldn't hurt.”

He expects a flurry of rage to explode from Clarke at his mere suggestion, and is thus utterly and completely surprised when Clarke returns his nonchalant shrug, clasping her hands together and propping her chin up on them. This time, he doesn't hide the look he takes at her cleavage. “Wells suggested the exact same thing,” she murmurs. “I'm still earning more money than I'll ever need from this tour alone, but there's no denying the popularity of your act,” she tells him contemptuously.

After a sharp inhale, she lifts her head up, unlaces her fingers and stretches her right hand out across the table at him.

“So,” she asks, as he takes her hand in his and tries desperately to ignore how soft it is, and the fact that she shivers slightly at his touch, “Bellamy Blake, would you like to do a duet with me?”

He shakes her hand, completely perplexed by his good luck. “I'd love to.”

\---

Their respective managers are simply over the moon that they have reached an agreement on their own, Wells shaking his hand, unable to hide his grin, Raven sliding him another celebratory shot after Clarke refuses hers. Clarke still looks highly uncomfortable whenever she is in his presence, but hey, at least she is sporting a smile rather than a scowl. He thinks that may have more to do with Wells' presence than their agreement, and there's no denying Clarke gets along really well with Raven, the two squirrelling themselves away in a corner of Clarke's dressing room and chatting loud enough for anyone to hear, their voices accompanied by wild hand gestures.

He overhears enough to know they're chatting about Wick, Clarke's lead guitarist and a man who has been making eyes at Raven ever since they joined the tour. He doesn't stick around to hear the rest, fleeing to the sanctuary of the couch, lumpy though it might be. Raven and he might be close friends, but there's no way he needs to hear all about her sexual exploits.

Wells takes a seat beside him, silently handing him a beer. They drink peacefully for a few moments, content enough to listen to whatever topic Clarke and Raven are discussing now (thankfully having moved on from Wick before the details became too graphic) before Wells says, “Thanks for agreeing to do this.”

It comes slightly as a shock, because Bellamy can count the times he's been thanked for doing something on one hand.

Sure, he may have known from Wells himself that Clarke needs to do something that startles the media and causes them to take notice of her as intensely as they once did, but the duet thing was his idea, not Bellamy's. And it's a mutual agreeable decision. Clarke gets the chance to show a different side of herself as an artist, and Bellamy gets the chance to be seen and heard by her audience, which number in the billions. Seriously, it's a win-win for them both, so he cannot comprehend why Clarke's manager is thanking him so profusely.

He says as much, and Wells laughs slightly, taking another sip of his beer. He leans in closer to Bellamy, looks over his shoulder to make sure Clarke is still busy talking to Raven, before speaking. “A duet with anyone other than you wouldn't have worked as well,” he tells him, leaning back slightly. “Sure, it would have been simple to bring in another act for a song here or there – Clarke's got Jasper and Monty on speed-dial and they'd be delighted to perform with her, as would Lexa – but you're the type of act she needs to be performing with if she wants the media to sit up and take notice. Now, don't get me wrong, Clarke's an amazing performer, she always has been, always will. She's just gotten a little too comfortable for my liking, and I think you're the type of guy who will be able to take her out of her comfort zone...in a good way.” Wells shoots a wink at him, chuckling.

He breathes in deeply and opens his mouth to respond, but Raven and Clarke are suddenly in front of them, Raven tugging harshly on his hand. “C'mon, it's time to get ready!” she exclaims, “God knows it's going to take hours to make your ugly mug resemble something at least semi-attractive.”

He flashes Clarke a smile over his shoulder as Raven drags him out of the dressing room, and receives a grimace in response.

\---

A few hours later, he's deemed stage-ready by Raven, the chords of his new song ticking over and over in his head as the makeup artist applies one last layer of powder to his face. Clarke's already waiting backstage when he exits his dressing room, resisting the urge to sneeze as the powder makes its way up his nose. God, is this what Octavia chooses to deal with every time she decides to go out? It's been years since the first time he suffered through an application of makeup before heading out onto a stage, yet he still isn't used to the sensation – he thinks it's like wearing a second skin, and he hates it.

Clarke is nervously tapping her fingers against her thighs as he approaches her, guitar slung over his back. The weight of it centres him somewhat, but there's no denying the nerves currently coursing throughout his body. They've only had a few days to practice the duet, only had a few days to work together as a team, and there's been more than a few hiccups, to say the least. Yelling and arguing had certainly played a major feature in their rehearsals, and he'd been tempted more than a few times to rip the sheet music in half and walk away from it all.

He taps Clarke lightly on the shoulder when he reaches her, not wanting to startle her. She's probably just as nervous about this performance as he is, lost in her own thoughts before the show starts. He's already run through his pre-show rituals in the solace of his dressing room, cheesy little things that include shooting finger guns at his reflection in the mirror. Despite his touch, Clarke still startles at his presence somewhat, eyes snapping open, her face softening only when she realises that it's just him. She looks him up and down, blue eyes widening at the sight of his slicked back hair – he supposes she's never bothered to leave her dressing room early enough to catch his opening set, too busy getting ready herself, and thus is used only to the sight of his curly hair. He shoots her a grin, fully aware of how devilishly handsome the combination of his slicked back hair, worn leather jacket and tight white shirt makes him.

Clarke, in comparison, has opted once again for her usual outfit of jeans and a button-up shirt, this time made out of fabric the same blue hue of her eyes. For once he doesn't mind the sight, and tells her as such. He supposes that may have something to do with the fact that her jeans are so tight he can almost make out the muscles in her legs, and her shirt isn't buttoned as severely as usual, treating his eyes to the sight of her exposed clavicle and an abundance of cleavage.

She shoots him a small glare out of the corner of her eyes, sighing before she murmurs, “Let's just get this over with.”

He grins even wider, shifting his guitar so it is resting against his chest, placing his free hand on the small of her back. The fabric of her shirt is so thin he can feel her skin against his palm, soft and supple. His hand almost spans the entirety of her waist, and the thought makes him shiver.

“After you... _princess_.”

He swears the combination of that nickname and the fact that his hand has shifted to rest lower down her back, would have earned him more than a mere glare, if they hadn't already reached the front of the stage, lights shining in his eyes and the screams of the crowd ringing in his ears. He laughs under his breath as she sideways shoots him a murderous look, before plastering a grin across her lips, waving wildly to the audience and screaming, “Hello Arkansas! I've got a special treat for you tonight, and I think you're going to love it!”

He mirrors her waving, albeit somewhat sedately in comparison to Clarke's frantic gestures, winking slyly at a few girls in the front row. He notes they are dressed similarly to Clarke, matching outfits of jeans and button-up shirts, but unlike her, they scream themselves hoarse to try and catch his attention. He can't lie – that does give him hope, because if her fans love him mere seconds after seeing, why shouldn't Clarke like him, even just a little?

The gentle smile she gives him as they sing together, his fingers strumming his guitar with ease and hers grasping a microphone gently, Clarke's voice sweet where his is raspy, almost makes him think such a thing isn't entirely impossible.

Their voices merge sweetly as they both sing, “ _In your arms, in your bed, under your skin, until there's no way to know where you end and where I begin_ ,” and the way Clarke looks at him under her lashes, gaze unwavering, alights something within him he cannot quite name. 

–--

Their surprise duet is a major success, and two weeks go by in which he cannot wake up without Raven boasting about how yet another magazine has chosen to plaster its cover with their faces. Octavia texts him constantly, so much so he opts to remind her she has actual college classes to attend, rather than bother to answer her questions, answers he knows she won't believe, not in a million years.

No, he isn't dating Clarke. No, he isn't sleeping with Clarke. No, he won't be able to get her an autograph. No, he won't send her free V.I.P. passes to their next concert – especially when he knows finals are coming up, and she should be studying, even if he misses her terribly.

If only one Blake sibling gets to goes to college, he's determined to make sure Octavia aces her degree. And hanging out backstage at her big brother's latest concert with the one and only Clarke Griffin certainly does not count as practical experience in journalism, not matter how badly she tries to convince him it does.

He may have skipped out on the whole college experience, but he has friends who went, and a simple call to Miller (along with five minutes of antagonising jokes at his expense for being on the cover of so many magazines – did his hair naturally do that, had his eyelashes always been so long, how many sit-ups had he done before striking that pose) confirms what he already knows – Octavia is not nearly as good as conning him as she was in high-school. Once she had managed to convince him the party she wanted to go to was integral for her social studies project...until she slipped up and posted a photo of her drinking a shot onto Instagram, seemingly drunk enough to have forgotten her brother was one of her many followers.

She'd sobered up quite enough on the ride home though, he remembers, enough to beg him incessantly for greasy fries, food she'd merely thrown up once they'd gotten back into the car. Octavia had to wash the inside of his car five times before the smell faded.

He is still internally laughing at the memory when Clarke comes up to him, hair pulled away from her face. She arches an eyebrow at him as he splutters, masking his surprise with a series of fake coughs he is certain are not convincing at all.

Later, when he asks, Clarke is more than happy to inform him that they really weren't, unable to hide her laughter at the memory.

“Ready for tonight's show?” she asks him, her face clear of makeup. He can spot the tiny freckles that dot her nose and cheeks, features that are usually hidden. With a clean face and hair pulled back into a loose bun, Clarke looks younger than ever before – like someone Octavia would be friends with, someone who has stayed up until 3 am every night this week to cram more study time in, someone who doesn't spend her days on a tour bus and her nights performing for millions. She looks just like a regular girl, someone who would be more than happy to go out with him to a fast-food place and eat her meal in the confines of his car, listening to cheesy music on night-time radio.

He shakes his head to clear his mind of whatever it is he's thinking, winking down at her. “Of course I am,” he tells him, straightening up so he towers over her. Her shirt is buttoned all the way up to her neck, so there's no chance of snatching a peek down it, unfortunately. He means it when he says Clarke Griffin has one of the best racks he's ever seen...and he's seen quite a few. “I was born ready,” he further informs her, grinning as she rolls her eyes up at him, shoving him lightly in his side. He almost looses his balance, which would have been unfortunate, but manages to catch himself, smirking at her.

What he says next never should never have come out of his mouth.

“You're going to miss this when I'm gone,” he teases, smoothing down his jeans. He leans against one of Clarke's large speakers, a smirk now fully spread across his lips. “You're going to miss me Clarke Griffin, and don't even try to deny it. I know it's true.”

He completely means his words as a tease, knows that what's coming out of his mouth is utter bullshit. He supposes that's why he's so shocked by her response.

Clarke studies him for a moment, before shrugging lightly. “Maybe,” is all she murmurs, before turning on the heel of her worn leather boots and walking, hips swinging alluringly from side to side. He swears she deliberately swings them more than usual to ensure he is still looking in her direction long after she rounds the corner, but hey, he isn't complaining. It's been a long tour, one comprised mainly of hurried travelling from one venue to the next, and for some reason he isn't as interested as casual sex as he was before this tour started.

Which is definitely not due to the feeling that swells in his chest when Clarke smiles at him.

It can't be.

(He's a terrible liar).

–--

If Octavia were here, she would have pestered him until he came to the realisation he's just made, alone in his trailer and watching the sun go down as they travel to yet another arena.

But his sister is thankfully safe and sound at school, sending him Snapchats every hour to update him on her studying progress. She seemingly spends more time organising her studying material than studying it, but he knows better than to make a fuss.

It's in between laughing at Octavia's latest Snapchat, one that depicts her poking her tongue and crossing her eyes, captioned 'Studying has sent me silly!!!!' and strumming gently on his guitar, working on new material that he hopes Clarke will like, that he realises. The sun is going down, illuminating his trailer with gentle light, and he can see fields upon fields when he looks outside the window, Clarke's trailer making a steady pace along the highway in front of him.

He doesn't want to just fall into bed with Clarke Griffin, he realises with a shock, curtain falling from his fingertips.

_Shit_.

It's been weeks since they first performed their duet, and over that time, he's come to consider Clarke an integral part of his life, as constant a presence as Raven. Sure, he stills wants nothing more (besides perhaps a CMA or a Grammy) than to pull her to him and kiss her, finally laying his hands on certain parts of her body that haunt his dreams. He has plenty of groupies, plenty of scantily-clad women who gaze up at him when he's on stage, throw him quite of a few pairs of their intimates, but the days, most of the time he only has eyes for Clarke, button-up shirts, glares, narrowed eyes and all.

 _Crap_.

He falls onto the couch, hand rubbing the furrows that have settled on his brow. How could he have allowed this to happen? Bellamy Blake is, and always has been, a one night stand kind of man. He's never wanted anything from a woman besides the physical gratification they can both share in, has never wanted to wake up next to them and smooth hair away from their forehead. He's never wanted to make them breakfast, watch them slip into one of his shirts, and spend the rest of his day in their company.

In this way, Clarke Griffin is different. Their duets have shown him that, and he's been surprised by her willingness to do things his way, after her initial reluctance passed. Sure, she may be just as aggravating and annoying as she was the first day they met, but now he knows to take her complaints and demands and throw them back at her, teasing her until her face flushes red and she storms off. He's had to apologise quite a few times, forced to by Raven, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

In fact, he begun to count down the days he has left on this tour – and not in a good way. Time is passing way too quickly for his liking, and he has no way to slow it down.

He has no control over what is happening, including, it seems, his new-found feelings for one Clarke Griffin.

Bellamy Blake has never been one to deny himself something he wants, and he wants nothing more than Clarke's lips pressed against his – and not just once.

–--

She's sitting in front of the mirror in her trailer when Bellamy barges in, thankful that she's at least semi clothed, legs bare but hidden underneath the desk. They've stopped for the night at some trailer park, and she's grateful for the lack of movement underneath her. Years and years of touring the country, yet she still gets motion sickness more than she'll ever admit.

Bellamy shuts the door loudly behind him, hair curled over his forehead. The look in his eyes reminds her of the morning she walked into his trailer unannounced, startling him from sleep and being more than startled herself at the sight of his bare chest. Clarke's seen more than her fair share of half-naked men, but she won't deny that Bellamy definitely topped her list – and it includes Zac Efron, post High-School Musical, _of course_.

She furrows her brow at him, placing her hands tentatively on her uncovered thighs as to hide the sight from Bellamy's apparently all-seeing gaze. “What are you doing?” she asks, thankful that her voice doesn't waver.

She looks directly at him, hair loose down her back, highly aware that she is the one at a disadvantage here, for all her bravado and dismissive looks. She's known for quite a while that Bellamy towers over her, all toned muscle, smirks and enough confidence to sink a ship. If he were anyone else, she would be wary of him, but as it is, he's wormed his way into her life somehow, and she doesn't see him leaving any time soon.

Not to mention that she can't quite picture her life being anything close to good without his presence, as annoying as it may be, after all these weeks on tour.

He walks over to her and tugs her out of her chair with only the merest of touches, his hand wrapped around hers. He doesn't release it even when she's standing, shirt barely brushing the tops of her thighs. She longs to tug it down, to hide at least some of her exposed skin, but her embarrassment is of her own making, not because Bellamy is taking advantage of the sight before him. In fact, unusually, his gaze is directly at her eyes, and only at her eyes.

That makes her more nervous than it should, Bellamy's brown gaze intense and seemingly looking straight through her.

“Clarke,” he begins, voice so raspy she almost shivers.

The first time she heard him sing, Wells demanding that she at least listen to his demo for god's sake, it had been more than difficult to hide the flush that rose on her cheeks and spread across her chest. Seeing him sing had been a different experience entirely, but by then she was better equipped to deal with the rush of desire that came over her. Sitting beside him on stage, looking directly into his eyes and singing the love song he'd composed himself...well by then, Clarke thought herself an expert on pretending she did not desire Bellamy Blake, and a darn good one at that.

But with the man himself before her, staring down at her, lips parted and cheeks flushed, she's as helpless as she was that first afternoon when she listened to his voice croon out of Wells' phone.

“Yes?” she murmurs, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

Everything is always a competition between them, always a constant game of push and pull, and she'll be damned if she lets him win, bare legs or not.

He doesn't respond. The feeling of his lips on hers, warm and soft and tasting lightly of orange juice, is answer enough. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as she raises herself up on her toes, desperate to be closer to him, desperate to feel his skin against hers like she has so often dreamed of.

Bellamy's lips, Bellamy's touch, Bellamy's _presence_ \- they all spark a feeling deep within her she never knew was missing.

Now that she knows what it feels like, she never wants to live without it.

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY EVERYONE! Whether you're single or in a relationship, I hope everyone's having a fantastic day - I'm super excited for half-price chocolates tomorrow!!!! 
> 
> So, this AU is very very very much inspired by ABC's 'Nashville', a show I can seemingly not escape however hard I try. I've used one of the songs featured in the show as the title to this fic, and lyrics to that song also feature within the story. Obviously, I have no claim to either the show or its songs, but inspiration strikes where it strikes and there's no denying it. 
> 
> Just imagine Bellamy Blake, hair slicked back and torso clad in a tight leather jacket. That's the image that's been haunting me for weeks before I finally gave in and wrote this fic. I don't think anyone, even Miss Clarke Griffin, would be able to resist that. 
> 
> (Well, for the purposes of this fic, she definitely can't).
> 
> If you want to squee about Bellarke with me, feel free to check out my tumblr - martinsllydia


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